. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate.
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